


Fall Risk

by GestaltHammer



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Friendship Is The Best Ship, Gas Lighting, Happy Ending, M/M, Past Relationsips, Song fic, Sort Of, relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 12:08:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17263937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GestaltHammer/pseuds/GestaltHammer
Summary: In the wake of a painful break up, Gavin has what is supposed to be a one night stand, but it grows and thrives and takes over everything in his life. How much is too much to give up for love?(This is a song fic. Sort of. It went so off the rails that it's pretty unrecognisable until the end. I won't even say what song it is until the last chapter. Brownie points if anyone stumbles across this and can guess before then. It's also me trying to get into the psychology and early warning signs of an abuser.)





	Fall Risk

**Author's Note:**

> I directly lift a lyric from a song by Matt Nathanson because it's beautiful, and I'm jealous I will never be as brilliant as he is. "Forever is gone / And I watched it leave." Ugh, what an amazing brain.

It starts in a pub in Austin, Texas in the waning minutes of 2012. The lights are dim, but Michael's face is glowing, lips stretched in a wide grin, face pink from alcohol. The music is loud, but Gavin can only hear Michael's voice. The whiskey has numbed Gavin's sense of touch, but he can feel Michael's forehead pressed against his own, hands on his shoulders, the wall against his back. He doesn’t know if the others are watching, or if the feeling of seclusion and anonymity is a product of inebriation of both a physical and emotional variety. He doesn’t care. It's him, and it's Michael, and it feels as right as it ever has.  
  
It's been a while – 94 days – Gavin knows, not because he's been keeping track, but because he _just knows_ the weeks and the days since the last time Michael pressed up against him. They weren't drunk then, but they weren't affectionate either. It had been angry and sad, the end of something great, or maybe, as it seems now, just a time out because here they are again, lips centimetres apart. All Gavin has to do is tip his chin, close the distance.  
  
Michael pulls back, his grin shifting into a smirk, but his hands remain, pinning Gavin to the wall. He's swaying, his balance compromised by his booze-pickled brain, using his hold on Gavin to maintain his feet.  
  
“I think that we should,” begins Michael, smiling coyly. He pauses to swallow while Gavin's mind eagerly suggests _should go back to mine, should drop trou, and do it right here, should try us again_ before Michael concludes, “not be around each other this drunk in this setting.”  
  
Gavin's shoulders slump, but he forces the disappointment out of his voice. “’M not that drunk,” he hums.  
  
“Then maybe it's just me, boy. My point stands,” Michael slurs.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“We broke up for a reason.” In spite of Michael's impressive drunken insistence, the man's hands still slip from Gavin’s shoulders to chest to waist where they loosely grab on.  
  
“And why’s that?”  
  
“Work place romances are a bad idea.”  
  
“Maybe I'll quit then,” Gavin purrs, eyes dropping to Michael's lips.  
  
Michael snorts out a laugh. “Maybe you'll get deported.”  
  
“Then maybe you should marry me.”  
  
Michael’s smile softens to something more sincere. He grabs Gavin’s chin, tilts it a bit so that Gavin's gaze shifts from his mouth to his eyes. “You’re hell of a lot drunker than you think you are.”  
  
“Prob’ly,” admits Gavin.  
  
Michael sighs, gives Gavin a couple of sloppy, uncoordinated pats on the cheek then removes his hands and takes a step back. “So I'm just gonna go ahead and table this,” he says, gesturing between them. “And . . . Man, I gotta piss.” He pauses for a moment, smiles sunnily at Gavin, then stumbles away.  
  
Gavin remains standing against the wall for some amount of time – not so long that Michael returns but long enough for Gavin to get bored (which means it's likely a matter of seconds). He isn't sure if Michael wants him to wait here or move the conversation elsewhere. Either way, it’s not a decision Gavin gets to make because before Michael can return, Griffon – lovely, perfect Griffon – is taking Gavin by the arm and leading him to a table. She gently pushes him into a chair beside Barb, whose face is flushed so brightly, it’s practically luminescent.  
  
“Tough breaks, hun,” Griffon sighs, rubbing small, comforting circles on Gavin's back. . . . But Gavin doesn’t need comforting. She just thinks he does because she's drunk too. As Gavin looks around the pub, he's sure that everyone from Rooster Teeth, aside from those who generally abstain and, oddly, Geoff, is. Griffon is just in that happy sweet spot, where she feels its effects, but can probably pass as sober to anyone who doesn’t know her as well as Gavin does.  
  
“What breaks?”  
  
“Oh, Honey,” Griffon says pitifully.  
  
“Did Michael stiff you a stiffy?” Barb cackles, then abruptly stops. “Way-way-wait, I can do better.”  
  
“Don't hurt yourself, Sweetie.”  
  
“Michael’s just gone to the toilets. He hasn’t abandonned or – or rejected me.”  
  
Griffon tries to exchange a knowing look with Barb, but the younger woman is too busy trying to think of a more clever pun to engage in the conversation. The mental effort is visible on her cherubic little face.  
  
“My lovely little boy has a lovely little bladder,” Gavin continues to explain under Griffon's sympathetic gaze while Barb snorts into her drink (a glass of mostly ice at this point). “What? He said we'd discuss it.”  
  
Griffon arches a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “What do you think ‘tabling it’ means?”  
  
Jesus, how much of that conversation did she hear? Had they really been talking that loudly? “It means we’re going to discuss it. I do know phrases and such, Griffon.”  
  
“It's pretty much the opposite. It means he's done talking about it.”  
  
“That's stupid. That makes no sense.”  
  
“That's what it means, Sweetie.”  
  
“But what if – what if I pull out a board game, bung it on a table – how would you decide I didn't want to play it? You make no sense. Your language is stupid. It's stupid.”  
  
“No, it's like – it’s like,” Barb stammers, glancing about furtively for an applicable example before her eyes land on her cup of ice. “I'm done with this drink,” she says, lifting the glass demonstrably. “So I'm _tabling_ it.” Then she smashes the glass onto the table. It’s tempered well enough that it doesn't shatter, but it does bounce a little and tip over, sending little chunks of ice skittering across the table, onto the floor.  
  
“But that's not what he meant.”  
  
Griffon gives him a sceptical look.  
  
“He knows your bloody stupid version of the phrase is wrong.”  
  
She turns around in her chair, glancing across the room. Gavin tracks her gaze back to Michael, who has emerged from the bog and is engaged in an animated conversation with the painfully sober Ray. Gavin shrinks a little. She's right. Michael isn't looking for Gavin. He isn't thinking about their conversation. He's ready to move on.  
  
Gavin sighs deeply and feels Griffon's hand return to his back. It isn't all that bad when viewed from within the fog granted to him by inebriation. It will probably sting a lot more tomorrow, in the harsh light of sobriety, when he realises his forever is gone, and he watched him leave without protest. But for now, he can drink and laugh and pretend to forget. Or he could, if he had another drink in front of him. All he has now is Barb’s rapidly melting pile of ice. He stands, wobbles a bit, flippantly tells Griffon and Barb, “Gonna have another bev.”  
  
Griffon touches his arm, and asks, “Could you bring Barbara some water?”  
  
Barb mumbles that she doesn’t need it – an assurance that would be a lot more convincing had she managed that superior pun about Gavin's situation she had promised. “Can I have a shot of tequila instead?”  
  
“Um, yeah, all right,” Gavin says hesitantly and glances at Griffon who is shaking her head and mouthing the word, _no_ , which settles it. Griffon’s word is law.  
  
Gavin pushes his way through the crowd, over to the bar. It's standing room only – all of the stools taken. The barmen are preoccupied with a group of women. So Gavin waits, half listening to the men sitting on stools beside him talk about patriots and horses and various types of birds (ravens; falcons; seahawks, which don't sound like real things), defences, offences – and, _oh, this is athletics talk_ \- all the while swaying gently to that infuriatingly infectious “Call Me Maybe” song and pointedly _avoiding_ looking at Michael. He sways a bit too hard and bumps into one of the sporty blokes. The man pauses mid-laugh and looks at Gavin. His eyes quickly shift from amused to appraisal to something Gavin can't quite identify, but it certainly isn't bad – the man is smiling a gentle, attractively lopsided smile after all, though after closer scrutiny, Gavin isn't sure there's a feature on the man's face that could be described as anything but attractive. The man quickly hops down from his stool and offers the seat to Gavin.  
  
Christ, he's tall – taller than Burnie. Broad shouldered too, cut like someone who spends a lot of time at the gym. Gavin stares for longer than is appropriate before answering the man’s offer with, “Nah, I'm just looking to have a bev.” He has to shout it a bit to be heard over the music.  
  
The man leans in so he doesn't have to raise his voice as much. “What are you drinking?” It's a good voice. Deep but not too deep. Full and rich. Like listening to a symphony.  
  
“Jack and coke,” Gavin replies, then after a moment of thought adds, “I like whiskey.”  
  
The man holds up his glass – ice immersed in a soft golden-coloured liquid. “Good taste.” He motions to the barman, immediately gets his attention, and orders for Gavin. People who look like he does always get what they want sooner rather than later. The man returns his attention to Gavin and holds out a hand. “Milo.”  
  
Gavin doesn't know if it's the alcohol, but he finds himself thinking what a great name it is, how, if Gavin were to speak it, it would be like staking a claim - _mi_ lo, _my, mine_. Fantastic. And he smiles as he takes Milo's hand and replies, “’M Gavin.” Then regrettably continues, “And ‘m not as off my tits as people think I am.”  
  
Milo doesn't quite laugh; his smile brightens, and his nose wrinkles up, and his eyes go squintier. It’s silent and somehow all the better for it, as though he keeps the joy of the noise trapped within, and it intensifies beautifully when it erupts through his smile. The bloke beside him, on the other hand, does laugh like a donkey, and Gavin just wishes he would piss off.  
  
“We can fix that!” he croons happily. _Please shove off_. “Kamikazes all around!”  
  
Barb whoops from her table.  
  
One of the barmen jumps on the task immediately. Not surprising. Milo's friend is fit as well, in a _Trainspotting_ sort of way.  
  
Gavin is one of the first to have a shot glass slammed down in front of him, shortly followed by the drink he actually wanted. Before he can tell the barman that Burnie will pay for it, Milo says to put it on his tab.  
  
Gavin grins stupidly up at him. “Cheers.” He knocks back the shot in one gulp. It hits hard. He gags a little then giggles. “Christ! That's strong.”  
  
Milo actually laughs this time. It's not as good as Michael’s. Sure, it’s more conventionally attractive, but it's a little too measured. It's the dimples and the nose wrinkling that give Michael a run for his money.  
  
“You're sure you don't want my seat?” Milo offers as Gavin sways dangerously, leaning in to take his bev.  
  
“Nah, ‘m gonna sit with my friends.” Gavin glances in Griffon and Barb's direction to see Griffon smiling approvingly over her bottle of Corona. He gulps a little before returning his gaze to Milo. “But you – you could come, if you'd like.” That word, _come_ , it's valid and apt in this context, but it gives Gavin pause. “I mean – with me, you could come with me – fucking hell! – you could join us.”  
  
Milo chuckles, leans in, says, “I could do both.”  
  
Chills. Life is always easier when Gavin is drunk. He's spent the last three months lonely and celibate, pining after his lovely little Michael. He spends a few minutes away from his friends while drunk, and he's pulled the fittest bloke around. And now, as Milo pulls away, he's not sure what to do with himself.  
  
“I, um, yes, all right,” he stammers.  
  
“I'll just shake off Oliver, and I'll be right over,” Milo replies, gesturing at his friend.  
  
In shock, Gavin nods and quickly retreats back to Griffon's table, whiskey in hand.  
  
“He's cute!” Griffon says immediately.  
  
“Are you gonna do it?” Barb demands, slurring her words horribly. Gavin really should have grabbed her some water like he promised.  
  
“I-I dunno,” Gavin mutters as the barman in charge of distributing kamikazes, apparently not recognising Gavin from the bar, drops off three shots. Gavin quickly gulps one down. “Should I?” he rasps, choking back another gag.  
  
“You're young. Have some fun,” advises Griffon, scooting the shooters away from Barb. “Just be safe.”  
  
“It's 11.50, Cinderella, you're gonna hafta talk fast if you don't want to turn back into a frog at midnight!” Barb warbles.  
  
Gavin stares at her blankly. “What?”  
  
“Ignore her,” Griffon orders.  
  
“If I don't start looking soon, I'll have to kiss Griffon,” Barb intones. She doesn’t sound altogether too unhappy about it.  
  
“Not gonna happen.”  
  
“Oh, look! He's coming over!” Barb shrieks.  
  
Gavin looks up sharply to see that Milo is, indeed, on his way to their table. He hid it well at the bar, but there's a little weave in the tall man's step that betrays a level of intoxication. Gavin feels ill with anticipation.  
  
“We’ll just go get Barbara some water,” Griffon hums, standing and pulling Barb to her feet. “Don't do anything I wouldn't do.”  
  
“What wouldn't you do?” He sounds awful. He sounds drunk. He probably has that stupid, confused look on his face that he gets when he's had a little too much.  
  
Griffon doesn’t give a substantial response. She just laughs and leads Barb away.  
  
When Milo makes it to the table, he drops heavily into one of the chairs and grins crookedly at Gavin. He must've drunk one of the kamikazes as well. Gavin can see a new flush rising in the man's cheeks. “Where'd your friends disappear to?” He gestures to the two full shot glasses on the table. “They left their drinks.”  
  
“Barb shouldn't be drinking any more, anyways.” Gavin concentrates on speaking clearly. It works, but it sounds odd with his over-enunciation and just makes him sound drunk in a different way. “What about your mate? Oliver, was it?”  
  
“He's one of my best friends, but really, he's a shithead. I put up with his drunk-ass shenanigans all the time. He can put up with mine every once in a while.” He pauses, picks up one of the shooters, and stares into it suspiciously. “He always pulls shit like this too. Wasting his money on getting other people drunk.”  
  
Gavin eagerly grabs the other shooter. “I don't mind that part, actually.”  
  
Milo pulls a face. “You're sure? You sound a little far gone.”  
  
“Nah. ’M better at life drunk. ‘M top.”  
  
Milo grins and sort of chokes on a laugh. “That's fucking precious, man.”  
  
“You seem well-bevved as well.”  
  
“A bit, yeah.”  
  
“And d'you make poor decisions when drunk?” Gavin knocks back the shot. And, Jesus, he thinks he's going to vom. But he gulps hard, and it passes, and a second later, Milo follows suit with a grimace.  
  
“Not really,” comes Milo's response. “I usually understand my decisions, come morning.”  
  
Gavin scoots his chair over so that he's sitting right up against Milo. “Kiss me.”  
  
Milo blinks. It's an unremarkable action, but Gavin is inordinately aware of it. Just as he's aware of Milo's eyes momentarily dropping to look at Gavin's lips.  
  
“It's tradition,” Gavin prods. A bloody stupid tradition, but if it gets the memory of the taste of Michael off his tongue, then so be it.  
  
“It’s 11.57,” Milo says blankly.  
  
“Forget it,” Gavin grumbles. He understands – his best friend, his boy, his Michael doesn’t want him; why would a beautiful stranger feel any differently. It's still frustrating. He still feels led on and annoyed. He stands up, clumsily sending his chair toppling to the ground. The world wobbles dangerously.  
  
Milo's hand is at his elbow again, stabilising him. Gavin looks down into Milo's fond, smiling eyes. Blue. Very blue. Air is thinner in there. If Gavin is sucked in, he'll surely suffocate.  
  
“Careful,” Milo warns.  
  
Yes, careful indeed. Gavin can't go suffocating in an attractive stranger’s gaze.  
  
“Just wait. It's only two minutes now.”  
  
Fair enough. It's not like Gavin has anywhere to be, and even if he did, he doesn’t trust himself to make it there. Gavin glances at the chair he just vacated. It seems significantly closer to the ground than he remembers it being – too long of a journey for him to make without a lift. So he scoops up his drink, nudges the shot glasses out of his way, and sits on the table instead, which makes Milo laugh. It sounds as warm as the whiskey feels sliding down his throat.  
  
It's probably one drink too many. Everything seems out of focus and overexposed, except for Milo, who is leaning towards Gavin, asking if he's okay, while everyone else in the pub is counting backwards from 90 for some inexplicable reason.  
  
“ _Americans_ ,” Gavin says dismissively.  
  
Milo purses his lips, and Gavin can't tell if he's worried or amused. But he does know the man has a nice mouth.  
  
Oh.  
  
Countdowns and ritualistic kisses and attractive strangers named Milo. Gavin leans forward, overbalances, starts to fall before Milo secures him by his shoulders. But he's closer now, almost as close as Michael had been earlier. So Gavin does what he couldn't with Michael and closes the distance before Milo can change his mind. He tastes like his drink – honey and headfuckery. The tall man stiffens at first, when Gavin's mouth crashes into his. Then he loosens up, and his hands wander – one to the back of Gavin’s neck, the other to his hip. It's what Gavin imagined kissing Michael would be like, in the month and a half between their meeting and dating – aggressive, passionate, pleasant. There are little fireworks going off in Gavin’s mind. A new life in the dying moments of Michael and Gavin.  
  
It's still ten seconds away from 2013 when they break apart. Nine, eight, seven, six. Milo presses a firm, chaste kiss against Gavin's lips. Three, two, one.  
  
_Come back to mine?_  
  
Gavin doesn’t hear Milo say it over the cheers that erupt in the pub. He sees it. He can't form the words to respond. But he can nod, and he does emphatically. _Yes. Yes. Yes!_  
  
He doesn’t remember much of the car ride, except thinking that Milo probably shouldn't be driving, but Geoff drink drives with some frequency, and it’s never stopped Gavin from getting in the car with him. At some point, Gavin ponders leaning over, unfastening Milo’s belt, and sucking him off here and now, but when he reaches out to try, Milo tells him that tonight he needs to focus on the lines on the road, staying in his lane. So Gavin watches in reverent silence as the streetlamps alternate between lighting and casting shadows on the perfect man's face. Time slips away from him. He's aware of losing little pieces, even as he tries so hard to hold onto them. He can't differentiate one second from the next. Sometimes Milo says something that doesn’t make sense to Gavin, and he realises they’re having a disjointed conversation, except Gavin can't remember what he's said so that Milo's responses lose context before he even speaks them. If Milo notices, he doesn’t say anything. Or he does, and Gavin doesn't remember it.  
  
It takes Milo stumbling out of the car to make Gavin realise they've arrived at their destination. Gavin scrambles out of the car after him, narrowly avoiding landing flat on his face in the drive in the process. Milo asks if he's okay again. So lovely. So perfectly lovely. Gavin replies by launching himself at the tall man and making a mild effort to scale him, which fails, but it makes Milo touch him again, so it's a failure Gavin is more than happy to live with.  
  
“Are you too drunk for this?” asks Milo.  
  
_Definitely not_. Gavin even manages to say it, he thinks.  
  
Milo smiles gently, takes Gavin's upper arm in a strong grip. He's able to support most of Gavin’s weight with that arm and a little help from Gavin's legs. Gavin loses the trek to the front door, but retains the impatient seconds of watching the tall man fumble with his keys, miss the lock multiple times. But at length, not great length, but it feels that way, the door is unlocked.  
  
It has to be okay now. It's right this time. Gavin launches at Milo again, wraps his arms over the man's shoulders, and loses himself in another kiss. Then they're inside. His back’s against a wall. His hands are all over Milo's body, trying to get under his clothes but lacking the dexterity in his intoxication to be more than moderately successful. He whimpers a little when Milo withdraws, standing at full height, breathing a little heavily. Gavin tips his chin upwards to look into Milo's face. Jesus Christ, he's tall.  
  
“Couch? Bed? Kitchen counter?”  
  
“Right here.”  
  
Gavin feels Milo smile against his lips as he pushes close again. “You’re amazing,” he says when they break away. “Condoms are in the bedroom.”  
  
“What? ‘M clean,” Gavin slurs. “Aren't you clean? ‘M clean. You are, aren't you?'”  
  
“I am, but I don't know you; you don't know me.” His voice is smooth, beautifully charming. His eyes are bright and smiling. He's so perfect. So beautiful. “We should be careful.”  
  
Whatever he says. Whatever it takes. “Bed it is,” Gavin lilts.  
  
Then it's more aggressive – no, passionate, maybe desperate on both sides. Stumbling down the hall, frantically losing clothing on the way, touching, moaning, falling. And Gavin doesn't remember how it begins or how it ends or any of the details in between, but he knows the sensations, the goosebumps, the electricity. It's the sky. It's the moon. It's ecstasy. That he remembers. That he knows.  
  
Hold on to this. Remember. Hold on. Hold . . .


End file.
